I caught fleeting glimpse
of her throughout the day,
She lingered by the water's edge,
with another group, their tale yet unsaid.
A megaphone blared brazen attitudes to the air,
A bottle of Buckfast was her chalice to bear;
She supped that viscous liqueur,
It's contents not as dark as her charcoal hair.
By the Spanish Arch as daylight subsided, we drank
and wandered among the intoxicated.
Then the guards came
and chased us all away.
A street-party was going down in The Latin Quarter.
Tides of people made it hard to get around. Deftly,
I waded through the massive crowd
to find friendly revelers in the tavern above.
Later, across the way in our favourite pub,
She resurfaced, megaphone still going,
Her eyes spoke volumes of venturous exploits,
This night but a chapter in a tome of conquests.
Those pupils that glimmered
had something magic in them:
A soft disregard for the world
and calm anticipation.
